“The Monarch of the Glen,” exhibited in 1851, was a stag, executed with vigour and soundness of modelling, which recalled some of the finest works of the artist.[1] The group styled “Geneva,” which appeared with this, was a large painting of several asses, a bull, a mule, &c., gathered under an arch. The head of the mule struck us as the best part, where all portions were worthy of the painter. “The last Run of the Season” showed a fox leaving his earth; the texture of the beast’s hide was rendered with dexterity, and the head characterized the painter’s peculiar craft in such subjects, but there was not enough of the “varmint” in its expression.

“Titania and Bottom—Fairies attending,” was a happy specimen of Sir Edwin’s poetical invention, and one of the most agreeable pictures which illustrate Shakespeare. The graceful nature of the Queen of the Fairies was shown in Titania, whose figure expresses the love-languor of her absurd dream; she leans with a confiding caress against the most complacent Bottom, who extends his huge paw to handle a fairy. The head of Titania is decorated with a diadem of leaves and glow-worms. Fairies mounted on white rabbits add quaintness to the whole. “A Highlander in a Snow-storm, holding an Eagle he has just shot,” and “Lassie,” were summer and winter scenes which effectively contrast each other. These concluded the pictures of 1851. The year 1852 gave us nothing of immediate profit, but the year after made ample amends.

What one may call the progress of ultra-facility, the decline of Sir Edwin’s power of solid painting, was illustrated by the pictures of 1853, being the dramatic designs—they were little more—styled “The Combat,” and, severally, “Night” and “Morning,” the subjects being a duel of stags, and the ruin of both. The pictures were at the Academy, and, later, at the International Exhibition of 1862. The contrasted effects were those of, 1, romantic gloom, much less than twilight, with a dim moon, with screens of rain flying by a tumultuous lake, and, 2, dawn growing rosier as the day grows over the fields; the subject of the death struggle, and of death. In the one picture the beasts were fighting, with such intensity of action as no one but Landseer could have given, so that they are “locked horn in horn in fight.” The second picture shows the combatants still locked together by their horns—indeed it was this which decided their fate; they are both dead on the hill-side, the day has come, the gusty night winds are hushed and the lake is a mirror again; growing light reveals the outlines of the hills, grey mist creeps on the strand, the bird of prey wheels in the air above the dead, and the fox has come from his lair in the rotting fern; the royal dead are carrion prey. Here is a moral forcibly depicted, on which we need not enlarge. The pictures belong to Viscount Hardinge, and have been engraved by Mr. T. Landseer, to whom not a little is due on their account, for it is certain that the magnificent design lost little in translation, and that the picture was not pre-eminent. “The Children of the Mist,” a group of deer on a cloud-laden moor, was exhibited with these more powerful examples which we have just described.

Whatever may be the defects of the Royal Academy as a society—and most of these are, we trust, in the course of correction—there can be no doubt that collectively it has done many fine things; the members have often acted in a noble manner; the number of instances of sacrifice of cherished advantages to fellows or rivals is considerable, and the story has been told of many Academicians who have taken their own pictures from the walls in order to place those of others in good situations. We believe it was about 1853, or it might have been at an earlier date, that Sir Edwin was one of the Hanging Committee for the Royal Academy Exhibition; it does not signify who was his fellow, but it is certain that he was a landscape painter, and therefore no rival of M. Gudin, an animal painter. Sir Edwin found among the contributions which had been set aside as “doubtful,”—i.e. its chance of being hung was but a poor one,—a work which pleased him greatly, but which had no artist’s name. Taking it to his fellow-hanger, Sir Edwin found that both agreed as to its merits, and that it ought to be hung, and well hung. The difficulty was where to put it; at last the other hanger found that a place accorded to a painting of his would suit this one extremely well, he therefore took down his own and put M. Gudin’s production in its stead. Thus the animal painter found an animal painter’s work, and was the means of inducing a considerable sacrifice in order that it might be seen. It may be asked, why did not Sir Edwin take down one of his own paintings instead of allowing his companion to do so? The answer is, that it is possible that Sir Edwin had no pictures at that gathering; or it is still more probable that M. Gudin’s contribution would not fit one of the places occupied by Landseer. We have an impression that Sir Edwin’s generous companion was W. Daniell, R.A., in which case this circumstance must have happened long before 1853; but this date has been given as that of the circumstance.

The year 1854 was not one of those in which Sir Edwin’s powers shone at the Exhibition; in 1855 he gave nothing; in 1856 he contributed the capital “Saved!”—a fine picture, good enough to have made the reputation of another artist—to the Royal Academy. In 1857 we had the grandest stag which came from his hands, being “Scene in Brae-mar—Highland Deer, &c.,” a magnificent stag, standing in the mist, but not concealed by the vapour, and on the brow of a hill, bellowing defiance to the hunter or to other males of his own kind; a group of does are about him; a rabbit appears on the grass. The stag is superbly drawn, and his action instinct with pride. “Rough and Ready” was of this year; a portrait of a favourite mare, in the yard of her stable. The humour of the picture, one of those capital pieces of by-play which none introduced more happily than Landseer, was presented by the passionate emotion of a hen, who, having just laid an egg, calls all the world to witness the fact. “Rough and Ready” turns a questioning eye on the bird, but is not deeply moved by the event; indeed she looks a little bored by the uproarious mother-bird. This was a good example; but “Uncle Tom and his Wife for sale,” which accompanied it at the Academy, showed that Landseer had occupied some of his time during the years before this one in reading a now almost-forgotten United States novel. “Uncle Tom” is a dog of humble breeding and sturdy constitution; he has been brought to the market for sale, and is chained to his wife, for whom a similar fate is purposed. The best part of the picture was the tearful look of the wife at the dog of her heart. This was a masterpiece wherein Sir Edwin often triumphed—the humanizing of animal expression, or rather, the animalization of human expression.

“The Maid and the Magpie,” given by Mr. Bell to the nation, with better pictures, is, however, by no means unworthy of Landseer. The scene is a shed, where a pretty Belgian girl, with a gay red cap on her head, has come a-milking; the cow is willing, and turns with affectionate docility to her friend; but the girl, whose expression is happy, is ardently listening to her lover, who, leaning against a post, sighing and longing, speaks to her. Thus far she neglects her immediate duties. She is supposed to get into further trouble, because, having placed a silver spoon in one of the wooden shoes at her side, she did not observe how a malicious magpie pilfered the treasure, which, being missed, cause her to suffer grievously. The story belongs to that of Rossini’s “La Gazza Ladra,” with an older source, as Mr. Wornum said, in the French Causes CÉlÈbres. A calf and some goats were Landseerian, one cannot have a better word.

The most remarkable work which Landseer had for some years exhibited was the immense cartoon styled “Deer Browsing.” It is in coloured chalks, black, red, and white, used in a manner analogous to that which Mulready employed for his famous studies from “the life,” and it represented a herd of deer grazing, while hunters have stolen on them from the heights of the mountains, and prepare to fire from behind rocks. A royal stag browses unsuspiciously; but two does have detected the intruders, and, looking up with startled air and erected ears, are about to take to their heels. In the same year we found at the British Institution, to which gathering Sir Edwin had not then contributed for a considerable period, the humorous and characteristic “Twa Dogs,” an illustration of Burns’ poem with the same name. The gentlemanly dog, “they ca’d him CÆsar,”[41] had all the marks of his education about him; not only in “his lockit, letter’d, braw brass collar,” but in the gravity and cleared-eyed dignity of his face, which is wonderfully represented. The other dog, “that gash and faithful tyke,” is evidently for rougher service; and if not so much to be admired, is perhaps to be liked more. There is not the slightest doubt that

In the same exhibition appeared the portrait of Sir Walter Scott to which we have referred, styled “Extract from a Journal whilst at Abbotsford.” The poet sits laughing at the gambols of his dogs. Maida, the old deer-hound, famous in his master’s verses, is looking with “inane benevolence,” the humour of which is exquisite, on a little puppy on the floor; the little dog nibbles his senior’s tail. At their side is a letter directed to Sir Walter. In this, as the catalogue lets us infer, a proof of one of the Waverley novels had been received. By means of this, Landseer was convinced that the authorship of those novels was, as many suspected, due to Scott. This was, relatively, not a good picture. As a sketch of canine character and a dexterous piece of painting it had great merits; but the story was incomprehensible without the catalogue. In this respect it was less explicable at sight than “The Maid and the Magpie;” for the latter might be taken for no more than it really was, a picture of lovers gossiping, and the incident of the magpie and the spoon ignored.

“Doubtful Crumbs,” at the Academy in 1859, was hardly equal to its origin; a mastiff lolls at the door of his kennel, and a smaller dog looks anxiously for permission to pick up scraps. The picture, with a title in Highland jargon, in the catalogue of the Royal Academy Exhibition of this year, displayed how a hunted stag escaped two dogs by taking to the water. One of the dogs is hurt to death; the other is about to leave the stag. It was finely and vigorously designed, not less slight than of late from the painter. “The Prize Calf” showed, with a slight touch of humour, a frightened girl leading a calf through a mountain pass. “A kind Star” illustrated a Highland superstition, but in such a manner as proved that the designer’s mind was not in its usual fine tone when it was conceived. The superstition is that hinds are under the protection of beneficent stars: a hind lies dying on the banks of a lake. So far nothing could be said; but the introduction of a spirit, with a star in its hair, to bend over the poor beast, was of quite another order of invention. The production of this idea was the first decided sign of decay in the powers of our artist. Those who owed him much delight stood aghast before it. Some of these tried to ascribe its exhibition, and even its production, to obedience to some unfrequent impulse—deference to some inferior mind, subservience to some vulgar taste. However this might be, there, unfortunately, it was.

The year 1860 put the artist before us as effectively as before, and gave what is probably the strongest of all his pictures, the “Flood in the Highlands,” as to which I cannot do better than borrow from the “AthenÆum” of the time the following description, which has the freshest impression because I wrote it on the day when, in the well-known St. John’s Wood studio, and before the picture was sent to the Royal Academy, Mr. Millais introduced me to Sir Edwin Landseer:—“By right of seniority let Landseer come first. His subject is a flood in the Highlands, one of those catastrophes to which villages situated in gorges of a mountain country are exposed by the sudden melting of snow on the hills, or heavy falls of rain, which, swelling the little rivulets, often overwhelm a valley-hamlet at a sweep. The great flood, rushing from the hill-side, rages through the street; up to the very thresholds of the houses it pours along, a torrent irregular and resistless. Behind the village a range of low hillocks bear a few scanty trees, in the boughs of which some black birds have taken refuge, telling the wide extent of the inundation. The water has drowned the adjacent country, bearing along with it multitudes of farming implements and the dÉbris of the swept district. The inhabitants have taken refuge on the roofs of their cottages. Upon one, in the mid-distance, are men urgently endeavouring to save a team, which, borne onwards by the torrent, struggles relentlessly against its force, and, mad with fear, nigh baffles the efforts of the rescuers, straining to the utmost a rope held by them, whose entire strength fails to check the terrified animals that have already been swept past

the place of safety, and come driving full on to another cottage, nearer the front of the picture; an exhausted ox has reached this spot, and now, breathless, with bloody nostrils and eyes possessed with the madness of fear, strives in vain to save itself. The dumb agony of this beast is fearful; being nigh spent with the violence of the flood which sweeps over its flanks, the forefeet wrestle fruitlessly, and the animal will soon be borne away to destruction. The principal group, in which the chief interest of the picture concentrates, is placed on the roof of the nearest cottage. The people have saved themselves, but little else, so sudden was the coming of the flood. Right in the front sits a woman with a cradle beside her, of which the clothes are tossed aside, and the infant who occupies it lies in her lap; round her neck the child clings, ignorant, but yet alarmed. The woman’s action tells the horror and fear predominating in her soul. Fear for herself and fear for the infant relax even her grasp on its body, letting it rest almost wholly on her knees (the hands, however, instinctively making a guard), which terror has drawn up towards her; while, with forth-thrust neck and head, she glares at the approaching torrent out of large, rounded and dilated eyes, that have no glance for the infant now, but see in the struggling beast a presage of death for both. Her jaw is set back, paralyzed with dread; her mouth is open, the lips are retracted and hard, the eyebrows are up and yet compressed, the cheek pallid and rigid with lines of fear, her hair is dishevelled and her dress is disarranged. In short, this figure is a perfect study of expression, the success of which does honour to the artist. He has done well to show her momentary indifference to the child; for this is a new point of character, beyond question just and natural, which alone would remove the picture from the conventional order of works of Art.

“Behind this group sits an aged man, half imbecile, and scarcely recognizing the danger which threatens his family; but, with his dress drawn about him, keeping steadfastly in the seat where their heedful affection has placed him. Beyond, squats a boy, wrapped in a plaid wet from the flood, and caressing a dog he has rescued from the water, and now holds it, shivering, in his bosom. On a ladder raised against the side of the house, by which the people have ascended to the roof, are perched some poultry, fussily alarmed at the distress about them; a hen—as is the wont of such creatures when terrified—has laid an egg, which, falling on a step below her perch, much astonishes a cat that has established herself there, and now rises to examine the phenomenon. Here is a point some hypercritical people will get hold of. The egg is broken by the fall, the shell being hard and set. No egg is otherwise than soft at this moment of exclusion, these critics will say. Let us leave them their discovery, and proceed to point out an incident of the design that marks the genius of the artist. Close under the eaves of the house, and just emerging from the water, is a poor hare, endeavouring to burrow a way into the thatch, with struggling feet and ears laid back; the flood has brought this timorous beast into the neighbourhood of man, and it is pitiful to see its frantic efforts to make a place of refuge in the very habitation of its enemies. Above, grey wreaths of rain-clouds haste along, and the whole aspect of the picture bespeaks terror and desolation. The very fault of its execution aids this appearance, for the want of appreciation of colour, which is alone to be lamented, helps the motive of the theme by a certain chilly opacity. This, under another aspect, would seriously mar the credit of so marvellous a work. Sir Edwin has done his best in the picture, and the result of many years’ study shows how profitably they have been employed in ensuring him fresh honour.”

So far the critic, and present writer, sees no reason for changing his opinion of this masterpiece of Sir Edwin’s. If it was not his finest work, it was at any rate his culminating one; he painted none so good afterwards—indeed, even before it was finished, the painter, always a man of extreme nervous susceptibility, had hints that the human mind and the body which surrounded it are mortal. He was constitutionally subject to nervous depression, but these attacks accumulated force as years went on, and threatened the end which came with all its painfulness.

I remember him, during the painting of this picture, on the Tuesday before it was sent to the Academy—putting a few touches on the canvas. He looked as if about to become old, although his age by no means justified the notion; it was not that he had lost activity or energy, or that his form had shrunk, for he moved as firmly and swiftly as ever, indeed he was rather demonstrative, stepping on and off the platform in his studio with needless display, and his form was stout and well-filled. Nevertheless, without seeming to be overworked, he did not look robust, and he had a nervous way remarkable in so distinguished a man, one who was usually by no means unconscious of himself, and yet, to those he liked, full of kindness. The wide green shade which he wore above his eyes, projected straight from his forehead, and cast a large shadow on his plump, somewhat livid features, and in the shadow one saw that his eyes had suffered. The grey “Tweed” suit, and its sober trim, a little emphatically “quiet,” marked the man; so did his stout, not fat nor robust, figure; rapid movements, and utterances that glistened with prompt remarks, sharp, concise, with quick humour, but not seeking occasions for wit, and imbued throughout with a perfect frankness, distinguished the man. Even in 1867 there was little outward change, although not long after that date the attacks occurred with fewer and briefer intervals. These intervals caused the reports which flew about, “Sir Edwin is better,” “much better,” as some would have it, and, anon, “much worse,” as many said.

After the “Flood in the Highlands” had set Landseer’s reputation on a basis which was apparently firmer than ever, he produced pictures of value, even judging them by the standard proper to our estimate. In 1861 we had “The Shrew tamed”—“la jument domptÉe” of its French admirers, in 1867—a riding-mistress, who, having overcome a vicious thoroughbred mare, (for, this picture echoed the wandering voices of the hour, and “horse-tamers” were then in vogue) has made the beast lie on straw, and triumphantly reclines her own head on the mare’s flank, as the dame, supine and smiling, rests beside the steed, while the latter gently and obediently caresses her hand; the former, conscious of her victory, pats the animal’s head. The horse is exquisitely faithful in the handling, the glossy muscle-binding hide is all a-shine with health and horsehood; her powerful hoofs; her eye of fire, subdued but not depressed, and full of vigour; the strong, unmastered neck, that turns gracefully in its vigour towards the slender lady resting among the dreadful feet, as if there were no more harm in them than in her own, that peep daintily beneath the blue riding-robe. Among the straw, and painted as only Landseer could paint lapdogs, was a saucy little beast of that kind. Besides this very telling picture, Sir Edwin contributed three large cartoons in distemper, a triptych of “stag subjects.” In the centre was “The fatal Duel,” two mighty stags that have been fighting to the very death: here was an echo of a former picture, the noble notion again worked out. They lie in the snow on a mountain side, the surface of which, crisped by frigid winds after a thaw, was given with power and truth. One stag, wounded to the death, is prostrate, and dying on the ensanguined snow, while the torn and bleeding fragment of a horn attests the stubbornness of his defence. Over him the conqueror, with gory flank and limbs, bellows victory to the mountain side. The wings of the triptych are styled, “Scenes in the Marquis of Breadalbane’s Highland Deer Forest;” the first, stags and hinds traversing snow-covered hills; the second, a similar subject in mist. All these were capitally drawn and designed.[42]